Long Weekend
by dzio
Summary: House has a cunning plan, Wilson has a hangover of epic proportions, Wilson's hangover has a hangover of it's own and all three of them are stuck together at 221B for three days. This can't possibly end well... H/W friendship fic, rated for language. R
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **For a standard disclaimer see my profile. The lyrics on top are not mine, they're from "At My Most Beautiful" by R.E.M. Once again - this is translation of the fic I wrote in Polish, and this one is sadly NOT finished. Until I catch up with the Polish version, you can expect an update every two days, but from that point you'll just have to be patient. Or give me a finger and stop reading, your choice. The rating is only for some minor cursing, no dark stuff, getting naughty or violence in this story, it's pure Hilson friendship fluff. So if you don't mind the occasional "fuck", this is kid-friendly. ;) Enjoy.

**ooooooooooo**

_"I've found a way to make you smile._

_I've found a way,_

_a way to make you smile."_

**ooooooooooo**

On a Friday morning Wilson woke up with an excruciating headache. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but he soon decided it was a bad idea. A very bad idea. The light shining through partially drawn shades and sudden movement - he felt as if someone detonated a grenade somewhere between his temples. With a soft groan he fell back on the pillow and tried to stop thinking. This morning thinking hurt.

"Jimmy, old buddy! How are you this fine morning?" House. Wait just a moment. House? Wilson cracked open one eye and noticed that he was lying on a very familiar couch and there was a very familiar son of a bitch standing in front of him, wide grin on his face. Something clicked in his dazed mind and pieces of last night started to come back to him. The game. Salami pizza. Beer. A lot of beer. And probably some vodka, but he wasn't sure about that.

"Go away" he mumbled and closed his eyes again. "What are you doing up at this hour, anyway?"

"For your information, it's almost ten, so the question should be 'What am I doing on this couch at this hour?'".

A long moment passed, before the meaning of House's words reached Wilson.

"Ten?"

"Yup."

Wilson opened his eyes and jumped up. Oh, another bad idea...

"I had... Had an appointment with a patient at nine!" he stuttered out, trying to force the room to stop spinning.

"Calm down, Cuddy already called to ask what's going on with you" House shrugged and limped off towards the kitchen.

For some reason it didn't make Wilson feel calm at all.

"House, what did you tell her?"

"That your hangover is hungover, so, instead of patting bald heads of your dying kiddies, you're going to spend today in agony on my couch" said House and disappeared behind the door.

"Christ, House, tell me you're joking" groaned Wilson.

"Of course I'm joking" came from the kitchen.

"Seriously?"

A tousled head appeared from behind the kitchen door. "No."

"House!"

"All right, all right. I told her we went out to get a drink, you were hitting on some barely legal college student and her boyfriend broke your nose, and now you're ashamed to go to work with a squished purple potato in the middle of your face."

"House!!"

"Jimmy, your naivety makes me sad" said House, returning to the living room with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

"So you didn't really tell Cuddy that I'm hiding my broken nose in your apartment?"

"Of course I didn't."

"Seriously?"

"No."

Wilson closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. Then he opened them again and looked at House, who was leaning against the piano with the expression of someone, who just won the state lottery.

"House, unless you tell me what you told Cuddy, I'll get up from this couch."

House raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be a threat? Jimmy, how on Earth did you manage to spend a decade in the company of a master and not learn to threaten properly?"

This time Wilson was the one who smiled. "If I try to get up now, we'll see how salami pizza looks ten hours after consumption. I promise to aim at your shoes."

"That's better." House nodded with delight. "You're learning, young Padawan."

"Listen, we've got to get our stories straight. If I tell Cuddy one thing and you tell her something else, she will know we're lying and she'll be mad at us for a week."

House looked up, his expression dreamy. "I love it, when Cuddy is mad. She's soooo sexy... That blush, those stormy glares... Quickened breath..."

Wilson let out a heavy sigh. "How do you think, what is she going to believe? Your insane story about how I got stuck for the entire night in a men's room in a gay club and now I have to nurse my fragile, traumatized psyche? Or me, telling her that I ate some bad chili and asked you to call her for me and say that I won't be coming in today, because I can't get out of the bathroom for more than five minutes?"

"Oh, that one's better. Gay club... didn't think of it..."

"And how do you think, who is going to get an extra shift in the clinic for shamelessly lying to their boss?"

House smiled triumphantly. "Beautiful, Jimmy, beautiful! See, that's how you do it! I knew you had it in you!"

Wilson didn't say anything, only stared at House with a sour expression.

"All right, all right. I told her you had high fever and a nasty cough and I, world renowned infectious diseases expert, believed that you should stay in bed at least until Sunday. And I should stay with you, in case in your delirium you decide to wander out on the street in nothing but your pajamas. So we both have three free days. Cool, isn't it?"

Wilson lay back on his pillow. "Brilliant. Spectacular. Whole weekend with you, because if I go anywhere and someone sees me, Cuddy will give those extra clinic hours to _me_. I'm overwhelmed with joy."

House clutched at his heart in an over exaggerated gesture. "Jimmy! Are you trying to tell me that you don't want to spend time with me? You wound me!"

"Great. Why should I be the only one, who feels like crap today?"

"Because you're the only one, who drank enough alcohol to intoxicate the entire football team, plus the coach and the masseur?"

"Ah, right" muttered Wilson. The smell of House's coffee reached his nose. "I need caffeine, if I want to feel human any time soon."

"I know" said House lightly. "Puking can help too."

"Ugh. Shut up" moaned Wilson. "That was supposed to mean 'How about you go to the kitchen and get me a cup of coffee?'".

"Me? I forgot, which one of us has two good legs and can run around as he pleases? Ah, yes, I remember - it's you!"

"And which one of us is going to throw up all over your carpet it he tries to make two steps in the general direction of the kitchen?" Wilson glared at House.

"You know, if I knew you're going to be such a pain in the ass in the morning, I'd pour your sixth beer in the sink. Your obnoxiousness is beginning to seriously outweigh the entertainment value of this whole situation."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to spoil your fun" growled Wilson.

"So don't spoil it. I know it goes against your nature, but you might want to think about me and my needs from time to time."

"House. Coffee."

House put his coffee mug on the piano and bowed with his arms crossed. "Yes, master, of course. Whatever master wants! Does master wish a breakfast to bed as well? Some fried eggs? Toast? Leftover pizza?"

Wilson clenched his teeth and silently repeated _No, I can't beat House to death with his own cane_ three times.

"Coffee. _Now_" he drawled.

House laughed and went to the kitchen.

_This is going to be a very, very long weekend, _thought Wilson.

**ooooooooooo**

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **For a standard disclaimer see my profile. "Satisfaction" belongs to the Stones, and if you really believe that I'm Mick, you should seriously consider starting to take your meds again. The state of House's apartment, however, intentionally resembles my own place (only my slightly anal brother chased the Sink People away before they had a chance to invent anything), so if you ever decide to come for a visit, don't forget your hazmat suits.

**ooooooooooo**

House came back from the kitchen with a chipped mug full of fresh coffee.

"You didn't have any mugs that weren't broken?" asked Wilson, turning the hot cup - which looked as if someone tried to hammer in some nails with it - in his hands.

House shrugged. "I did. But there's something green in them. I think it's the soup from Monday."

Wilson tried to imagine what else could be lurking in the depths of House's kitchen and shuddered.

"You could wash the dishes from time to time, you know? I think there may be a new civilization evolving in your sink."

"I'm waiting for them to invent the wheel, pack up and leave by themselves."

Well, convincing House that keeping his apartment clean was a right thing to do was completely pointless. The only thing that you could do was give him a card of a cleaning company once a month and in the meantime hope like hell that nothing that could cause a state-wide epidemic hatched in his apartment.

Wilson swallowed the first, tongue-burning sip and sighed with delight. House knew how to make a good coffee - strong, wonderfully aromatic... Even if the mug sucked.

Wilson nestled down comfortably on the couch and waited for the magic of caffeine to start working. Suddenly a rather worrisome thought came to him.

"House?"

"Hmm?" mumbled House, looking up from some idiotic tabloid from last week.

"There's nothing I should be worried about in this coffee, right?"

"I told you, the mug was clean."

"I didn't mean some green filth growing in your sink, I meant something you might have put there on purpose."

House threw him a hurt look. "Me? You think I could have done something like this to my bestest buddy?"

Wilson looked at him without a word.

"Fine, I probably could. But I didn't! Scout's honor!"

"If you ever joined the Scouts, I'm sure your patrol was dissolved after a month, because instead of tying knots you dragged the boys out to pick up hookers."

"When I was ten? Jimmy, you flatter me, I didn't know you thought so highly of me!"

"Oh shut up, you moron. It wasn't a compliment."

House only smiled and went back to reading - probably a fascinating article about a woman, who gave birth to a wombat, or some other crap like this. Wilson slowly finished his coffee and experimentally sat up. He still felt as if someone stepped on his brain with a dirty work-boot, but at least he no longer saw stars every time he moved. Coffee may make holes in your stomach, but at this point the needs of his tortured head definitely outweighed his fear of ulcers.

Wilson gathered all the courage he could muster this morning and stood up. Hmm, so far so good... Or not.

"House?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are my trousers?"

"Oh, Jimmy, don't tell me you forgot our first night together! How could you?!" cried House, fluttering his eyelashes.

Wilson covered his eyes with his hand. "Jesus Christ, man, I'm _not _buying this, even if I do have a father of all hangovers."

"You don't think I'm attractive?" House sniffled and stared at his feet.

Wilson looked him over, his gaze moving from the mop of disheveled hair and dark circles under House's eyes, over the horribly crumpled t-shirt with the name of some gas station in Arizona, to gray socks with holes in them. "No" he said emphatically.

"I know several charming young ladies who would disagree with you!"

"Well, maybe if you gave me two hundred bucks I would change my mind."

"Ouch. Nice, really. Thank you so much for crushing my ego."

"House, to crush your ego I'd have to have an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile handy. It's half the size of Texas."

House laughed out loud. "Behind you, on the recliner. Watch it though, you dropped a slice of pizza on your knees, there's ketchup all over them."

Wilson sighed. "Will you give me something to change into?"

"Sure. Go find something" said House, gesturing towards his bedroom. "There should be a mostly clean shirt in the corner, on the left side of the bed."

Right. Many people believed that House's creased clothes were a part of his trademark style. Wilson knew better. It had nothing to do with any kind of style - House looked as if he put on the first thing he found on his floor, simply because he _did _put on the first thing he found on his floor. _Not _because he wanted to look charmingly disheveled.

Wilson took one step towards the bedroom and his foot hit an empty bottle, half hidden under the couch. He leaned down and picked it up, looking surprised.

"Vodka? We drank vodka last night?"

For a split-second House looked embarrassed, but he composed himself almost immediately. "It's been lying there since last week. Wild party, believe me. Wine, women and music. Sex, drugs and rock'n'roll."

"Yeah, right." Wilson shrugged and went to the bedroom. "Drugs and wine - or rather vodka - I believe without reservation."

"Unfaithful Wilson."

"All right, I'll admit, rock'n'roll seems plausible as well."

House muttered something to himself, but Wilson was already standing in the bedroom door and didn't hear it. He looked around the darkened room with mild horror. House wasn't kidding. Piles of clothes lay everywhere - on the floor, on the nightstand, at the foot of the unmade bed, under the chair... There was a single sock, hanging limply from the wall lamp over the bed. It looked like it was high time the cleaning company came for a visit.

Wilson once again told himself that the dream of House growing up one day, or at least getting his act together a bit, would never come true. And then he started looking for the least sweaty t-shirt in the pile.

"Wilson, I'm gonna take a leak, I will free up the bathroom in a minute!" yelled House from the living room.

"Too much information!" Wilson yelled back, putting on The Who t-shirt. It had a suspicious yellow stain on the left sleeve, but aside from that it looked mostly fresh.

"_I can get no! Satisfaction!_" the words of the Stones' song came from the bathroom, sung at the top of House's surprisingly good voice.

"Christ Almighty, House! I'm really not interested in the details of your auto-erotic problems! Skip the live commentary, will you?!"

A short burst of laughter came from the bathroom, followed by the sound of a toilet being flushed. Wilson dug out a pair of faded jeans from the heap next to the door. They were definitely too long, but he could always tuck the legs up.

"Okay, the bathroom is all yours" said House, sticking his head in the bedroom. "Hurry up, I'll go find something to eat."

Wilson spent blissful fifteen minutes in a hot shower, feeling the alcohol evaporate and his muscles, sore from sleeping on a lumpy couch, relax. When he left the bathroom, drying his hair with House's ragged towel, he felt almost fine.

All he needed now was a good meal and...

"House."

"Yup, that's me" confirmed House, his mouth stuffed with potato chips. "But you can call me Greg, after all we've known each other for so long..."

"That's not food. That's some chips, old crackers and a jar of strawberry jelly."

"I'm eating it. Ergo, it's food."

"Small kids will eat sand, if you don't watch them while they play in the sandbox."

House made a surprised face. "You want sand for breakfast? I don't have any. There's some milk in the fridge, but I wouldn't drink it. The color is off."

"You want me to spend the whole weekend here, with nothing but the stale Lays' to eat?"

"Hey, we have a phone. Which means we have pizza, Chinese, nachos and other yummy things. Besides, _you _can't go out and play, because the truant officer will drag you back to the hospital. _I _can do whatever I want. For example - go shopping."

"And bring more chips."

House shrugged. "Fresh chips."

Wilson rubbed his eyes with his hand, but he couldn't keep himself from smiling. House was mean, sarcastic, prickly, had the mentality of a ten year old high on LSD and could bring a saint to homicidal rage, but somehow Wilson managed to get used to it, even learn to like it. Being around House could never be boring - definitely a good thing for someone, whose weekly schedule was so meticulously planned, that you could set your watch by it.

Wilson looked around the kitchen, searching for something slightly more nutritious, and after a moment he found a loaf of bread, slightly dry, but still edible.

"This apartment is nearing a critical mass" he said after spending five minutes on a fruitless search for a toaster. "Where's the toaster?"

"On your left. It's hiding behind the frying pan."

"I'd be hiding too, if I were him..." muttered Wilson, using two fingers to push the pan, sticky with old grease, out of the way. He leaned down to reach the toaster and suddenly straightened up again.

"This is my glass. From last night" he said, pointing to a glass in front of him, one third full of now flat Grolsch.

"I know" said House with surprise. "So what?"

"So this beer smells like vodka."

The flash of panic on House's face disappeared almost instantly, replaced by one of his trademark _I have no idea what you are talking about_ expressions, but it was enough to confirm Wilson's suspicions.

"You put vodka in my beer!"

"You're crazy." The epitome of innocence. Of course.

"House, for what insane reason would you want to get me drunk? And don't say anything about my trousers and our night of passion on your couch!" Wilson raised a hand as soon as he noticed a flash in House's eye.

House laughed and if Wilson didn't know him as well as he did, he wouldn't notice that the laughter was tinged with a hint of nervousness.

"Jimmy, you were doing a great job getting yourself drunk, I didn't have to help you!"

"You didn't have to" agreed Wilson. "But you helped anyway. Why?"

For a long minute House stared at him with wide eyes, silent. Then he fixed his eyes on the floor and started fidgeting.

"For God's sake, how old are you? Five?"

"I... um..." Genuinely embarrassed House - a rare sight. Wilson was so surprised that he forgot he was supposed to be mad at him.

"Spit it out finally!"

House glanced at Wilson. "Promise me you won't be mad."

"How am I supposed to promise I won't get mad, if I don't know what insanity you came up with this time?" Wilson put his hands on his hips and fixed House with what he hoped was a stern look.

"Fine" sighed House with resignation. "So..."

**ooooooooooo**

tbc.

**A/N**: Yeah, I'm evil. Deal with it. And in case you're allergic to slash and are ready to run for the hills right about now – I have no intention of taking this story in that direction. This is a _friendship_ fic. And besides, I'm utterly incapable of writing a male/male erotic scene, I always imagine my very good gay friend reading it over my shoulder and laughing his butt off. Kinda kills the mood, you know?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **For a standard disclaimer see my profile. Barnes&Noble and "Brokeback Mountain" are another things that I wouldn't mind owning, but I have to do without them. Giving drugs to pigeons, calling your friends' relatives names, robbing banks and naming your cat "Boner" are Bad Ideas, if you decide to try any of them out, don't tell anyone you got them from me.

**ooooooooooo**

"I can't" said House, spreading his hands in a hopeless gesture.

"You can't do what? You didn't, unfortunately, loose your power of speech. You must have had _some _reason - even if it was something insane. And if you're afraid I will laugh at you, because the reason is absolutely pathetic, I have to inform you that, sadly, I've seen you in so many compromising situations, that one more time really won't make any difference. Not after my second wedding."

For one short moment House stopped resembling a dog, which just pissed on the carpet and is expecting to get smacked with a rolled up newspaper. He grinned at Wilson.

"I'm sure your charming cousin Maxine remembers that evening fondly to this very day."

"I don't think so. I think that my cousin _Max_ still has nightmares, in which you play the prominent role."

"Oh, come on, I assure you, I was a perfect, charming gentleman."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "A little bit too charming. You could have let it go, at least once you figured it out. Speaking of which, I still have no idea how you managed to make such a mistake. Max may not be a macho type, but a low voice, Adam's apple and a _suit_, instead of a gown, should have told you something."

"Max has curly hair. Neatly combed, stylized and hair sprayed curly hair. I bet he spends a full hour in the bathroom each morning, blow-drying them." House shot Wilson a meaningful look, which was wisely ignored. "When you scare him, he starts squeaking in a falsetto. The shirt under this suit was _pink_. And, just for your information, I knew right from the start!"

Wilson only shook his head. _Should have expected this. _"So, you just wanted half of my family to stop speaking to me?"

"It was a revenge for seating me next to Aunt Miriam, also known as the most boring old toad on the entire East Coast. You could have at least not tell her I was a doctor. You sentenced me to a nightmarish ninety minutes of listening about her gastric problems and athlete's foot.

"Aunt Martha..." sighed Wilson, not capable of mustering even an ounce of justified outrage that someone, whose close relative had just been called an old toad, should feel.

"Besides..." begun House, but at the same moment Wilson's slightly slowed brain caught up with what his friend was trying to do.

"House, stop it. Changing the subject won't work."

The smile slipped off House's face.

"Talk."

"I really can't."

"House, either you tell me what's going on here, or I'm telling Cuddy who left the ads with her home number, saying _Call the Hot Momma and her Bouncy Twins_ in half of the sex-shops in Princeton."

House gave him a wide smile and shrugged. "Who else would it be? Cuddy already yelled at me. I told her it had been Evil Nurse Brenda, who's madly in love with her, but I don't think she believed me."

"And does Cuddy know that you got cable in your office and filed the expenses as _air conditioning maintenance_?"

"I assure you, the channel with jelly wrestling significantly improved working _conditions _and general _atmosphere _in my office."

"Yes, I'm sure Cuddy would see it this way" muttered Wilson.

"But a live show would be better, don't you think? You think I could run to the cafeteria to get some jelly and ask Cuddy and Cameron... Though Cameron has only been working for me for a month, she might get scared and run away. Or sue me. Hmm, that wouldn't be so bad, Cuddy would be so charmingly pissed off...

"House! Stop deflecting!"

House looked at him sadly. "Wilson, what kind of a man are you? You'd rather talk about my supposed misgivings than about Cuddy's Twins?"

"Cuddy's Twins didn't try to get me drunk last night!"

House looked at the ceiling. "Hmm. That's a really interesting visual. Worthy of deeper consideration."

Wilson decided he had enough. "Either you tell me what's going on, or I'm calling a cab."

After thinking about it for a moment, House let out a heavy sigh. "Okay, no more deflecting. Wilson, do you trust me?"

Wilson blinked. _What the hell? _"That depends" he said cautiously.

"Do you trust me enough to wait three days for that reason? I will explain everything on Monday morning, okay?"

"And until then I'm supposed to pretend that nothing had happened?"

"Um. Yeah?"

Wilson thought about it. "Well, I'm almost certain I'm going to regret it later, but let's say I agree." House straightened up in his chair and smiled. Wilson raised a hand. "On one condition."

"What?"

"At least tell me why you couldn't just ask me. Simple _Hey, Jimmy, how about we hang out here this weekend? _would be enough, you know? I'd even offer to pay for the beer."

"Um..."

"But then I would know that you _want _me to stay at your place until Sunday, right? You'd have to admit that you need something, that you care about something..."

"Wilson, for the love of God, don't try to psychoanalyze me" grumbled House.

"I stopped trying long ago. Barnes&Nobles didn't have any books on alien psychology."

"Ha ha. Very funny. I'm serious, Wilson, wait till Monday. I have an idea that won't work at all if I tell you now. I don't want to ruin the surprise."

Wilson recalled some of House's ideas for a fun weekend and shuddered slightly. He shuddered again when he remembered that, in House's opinion, the word "surprise" meant at best a bucket of water propped up on the edge of open door and at worst... Wilson wasn't really sure. Booby-trapping a car? "That's not very reassuring, you know?"

"Hey, take it easy, I'm not going to sell you for spare parts to some shady clinic in Mexico."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I thought you would do. Christ, I have no idea where these ideas of yours come from..."

"I'm a genius, I thought we were clear about that."

Wilson didn't answer, because at that moment the toaster spat out two crispy slices of bread. After a quick search he managed to find one clean plate and something, that probably started out as a ceramic dish to put under a potted plant. He put some strawberry jelly on the toasts (first he cautiously sniffed the contents of the jar, not checking the expiration date on purpose. It was very possible that it fell somewhere during Clinton's presidency. His _first _term. Wilson would rather remain ignorant) and put the meager breakfast on the table. House got his toast on the strange ceramic dish.

"That brilliant idea of yours... it's not illegal, is it?" asked Wilson, sipping his coffee.

House made another of his trademark faces. This time #17 - _Who? Me? Never!_ "Of course not" he said adamantly, stealing the last piece of Wilson's toast. "You'd be the worst partner in crime ever. If we robbed a bank together, you'd drop the gun and shoot yourself in the knee. Not to mention the fact, that you'd probably give some buxom hostage your phone number and the police would catch us an hour later."

Wilson ignored the shameless theft of his toast and shook his head, trying to get rid of a mental image of House, wearing a balaclava and a black turtle-neck, entering Princeton-Plainsboro Bank at River Road with cane in one hand and an Uzi in the other.

"Right, no bank robberies. How about breaking and entering? Underage hookers? Parachute jumps? Drinks at dodgy biker pubs? Feeding LSD to pigeons?"

House looked surprised. "LSD? When was it? I don't remember any pigeons. And I'm sure I'd be able to come up with several uses of LSD that would be more entertaining than watching feathered rats, convinced that the lamp post is trying to trample them."

Wilson closed his eyes and counted to ten. "It was a cat. My wife's, Sharon's, cat, don't you remember?" Wilson couldn't hope to ever forget it. Poor animal wracked most of the living room and the kitchen, badly scratched Sharon, and finally, in his panic, peed on the floor in the corner of the dining room, forcing the Wilsons to eat all meals in the kitchen for the next two weeks, until the smell disappeared. Wilson suspected that this _brilliant _idea of House's speeded up his divorce by at least a couple of months.

House scratched his chin. "Skinny little bastard, broken tail? What was it's name again? Buzzer? Burger? Butter? Boner?"

Wilson wisely ignored the last guess and once again, without much success, tried to get rid of the memory of the poor creature, running away from the potted plants in the living room in blind panic. "_Harrison_. Sharon had a thing for Indiana Jones movies. And you're deflecting again."

"Fine, fine. I solemnly swear that my plans for the weekend don't include anything that might result in jail sentence, broken limbs, being beaten to a pulp in a dusty parking lot or getting lynched by furious animal rights activists" said House, putting one hand on his chest.

"House."

"Yeah?"

"Your heart is on the _left_ side of your chest."

"How do you know? Did Barnes&Noble have a book on alien anatomy?"

Wilson laughed. "Yeah, I also found out that your miserable character is a result of genetic defect of your frontal lobe and that you have a pathetically undersized..."

"Hey!" interrupted House. "One step back, thank you very much. No one insults Little Greg!"

"_Little _being an operative word..." murmured Wilson with amusement.

House batted his eyelashes. "You didn't think so last night, darling!"

Wilson put his hands on his hips. "We've already established that I'm not falling for this. But since we're talking about it - I'll wait until Monday if you promise that your weekend plans don't include me being closely acquainted with Little Greg."

House stared at him for a long while. "Wilson, I hope you don't seriously suspect that I'm secretly infatuated with your chocolate eyes? I'm really just messing with you, I hope you realize that. Even if we _did_ watch _Brokeback Mountain _together on my couch and you're currently wearing my boxers - it doesn't mean anything."

"_Chocolate eyes?_" stuttered Wilson with disbelief.

House waved his hand. "I was eavesdropping on second shift nurses during lunch."

Wilson's eyes widened. "Seriously? What was her name?" he asked, mentally browsing through the list of all women working the second shift. _That new girl, the blond, what was her name? _he tried to remember. _Jenny? Jodie?_

"_His_ name, not _hers_. George, the redhead with a beard. Can we drop your life-long goal of banging every single female employee of PPTH and go back to my plans?"

Wilson shook himself and decided to avoid George in the future. Just in case House actually was telling the truth. However unlikely that was. "I thought you didn't want to talk about it."

"Sure, but you were _this close _to agreeing to everything I had planned, so how about we get back on track? I promise to keep Little Greg away from you."

"Fine, I give up. I have a feeling it's going to end badly, but I'm staying" said Wilson, sounding resigned. House, when he was determined enough, almost always got what he wanted in the end. Trying to control him was completely pointless, one might as well try to stop the hurricane by turning on the air conditioning.

House, a slightly worrying glint in his eye, hopped off the kitchen stool and rubbed his hands together. "Jimmy, this is going to be a _fantastic _weekend!"

_Hurricane Greg, board up all windows and hide in the basement, _thought Wilson, rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hand.

**ooooooooooo**

tbc.

**A/N**: I did tell you I was evil, right?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **For a standard disclaimer see my profile. Scotty is all mine though.

**ooooooooooo**

Next three hours were so _normal _that Wilson begun casting nervous glances around the living room, expecting some kind of a monumental disaster to strike at any moment. With House, _normal _was definitely not normal.

They were sitting on the couch, with their legs propped up on a coffee table, watching TV and lazily commenting the program. Or rather programs, because House, as usual, kept changing the channels every three minutes. Lack of anything he could concentrate on wasn't all that good for Wilson's already strained nerves.

"For the love of God, would you put the remote down for a minute?" he finally asked. "That talk-show was kinda interesting, I wanted to hear that guy's answer."

"First of all, I'm not putting down the remote, I have to make it clear who's the man in this relationship, or you might start thinking that you're allowed to make decisions around here. Second of all, I don't give a damn about some old fart showing off how smart he is and yapping about Middle East."

Wilson sighed and ignored the first half of House's little rant.

"He is a Harvard professor and he wrote four books about conflicts in the Middle East."

"Which doesn't change the fact that he's an old fart" House shrugged and switched the channel. Now the screen showed a close-up of big, red ants, eating some unlucky green caterpillar alive. Wilson felt his abused stomach twist and turn.

House noticed his reaction. "You know what, I'm hungry" he said, smiling widely. One of the ants bit off a sizable chunk of the weakly twitching caterpillar and dragged it off-screen. Wilson moaned and paled slightly.

"What would you like?" asked House carelessly, picking up a stack of take-out menus from the coffee table. "How about sea food? There's this great new restaurant on Oak Street. Shrimps?" The caterpillar quivered one last time and stopped moving. Wilson tried to fight off the wave of nausea by taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. In his imagination he could see a wide plate, full of juicy shrimps, sprinkled with a hot sauce. For some reason they were all green.

"No, please..." he moaned. "Anything, but the shrimps!"

"Pizza?" House asked innocently.

Wilson, who only fifteen minutes ago stopped letting out salami-flavored burps, shook his head energetically.

"Curry" he said. "I need something that will burn my taste buds, so I will stop feeling as if I spent half the night chewing your old socks."

"For your information, these are clean" said House, wiggling his toe, which was sticking out of a hole in his left sock.

"I was thinking about the ones under your bed. There's so much dust on them that for a moment I thought you got yourself a cat."

House made a surprised face. "There are socks under my bed?"

"Yes, there are. And a corduroy jacket, few t-shirts, a towel, old Gameboy batteries and an empty whiskey bottle. And some things I was afraid to touch."

"Sissy. Real men are not afraid of old pizza and crumpled porn mags" said House, dialing a number.

"House, after seeing your bedroom even John Wayne would run away screaming."

House didn't reply, because at this moment someone on the other end of the phone answered.

"Scotty, my man! It's Greg." Wilson looked at him with surprise. _Greg? _"Listen, I need two of boxes of your delicious curry... Yeah, two... The usual for me, and one extra spicy. Yeah, I'm sure... When... Okay, half an hour, no problem. Bye."

Wilson stared at him with wide eyes.

"What?"

"_Greg_?!"

"That's my name. You forgot?"

"You're letting some kid from an Indian restaurant call you _Greg_?!"

"Why not? Now, if he called me Susan - that would be a reason to be surprised."

"House, _nobody_, except your mother, calls you Greg. _I _don't call you Greg!"

House patted his shoulder. "Oh, poor you, you're jealous? Don't worry, I only have eyes for you, your still my bestest buddy in the whole world."

"Jealous? Why would I be..." Wilson broke off in the middle of the sentence and tried to think of something that wouldn't sound ridiculous. He came up empty. "Whatever" he sighed with resignation.

House nodded, apparently deciding that the conversation was over, and went back to torturing Wilson with the most disgusting TV shows he could find. Wilson suffered in silence through the three minutes of a documentary about plastic surgeries and three minutes of shaking images of blood-drenched victims of a terrorist attack in Palestine, but he drew the line at the three minutes of a nature film about hyenas.

"All right, that's enough!" he growled, snatching the remote and switching to VH1. Bob Dylan. Much better.

"Easy, easy. You're awfully jumpy today, you know?" House raised his hands.

Wilson threw him a dirty look. "I know how much you enjoy watching me turn green, but the show is over."

House smiled. "I don't understand you. What's so yucky about three sweet little furry creatures eating dinner?"

"They were having a gazelle for dinner."

"And? Maybe they couldn't afford McDonald's."

"A slightly rotten gazelle."

"Jimmy, half of your patients look more disgusting than this, and the other half regularly throws up on you."

"I don't see my patients when I have a killer hangover." Wilson didn't have energy to get mad at House for comparing his patients to African carcasses.

Bob Dylan was replaced by Britney Spears and House intercepted the remote in one swift move. "Okay, that's it" he said, switching to the replay of a basketball game. "Titties may be nice, but Britney is worse than all the rotting gazelles in Africa. And hyenas at least have a nicer laugh."

Wilson wasn't so sure, but he knew that if he said one word, House would start jumping between Britney and the hyenas, just to prove he was right. Wilson didn't want to watch those damned creatures for one second longer.

House abandoned the game after the next three minutes, just when the ball was flying towards the hoop after a spectacular play. If Wilson didn't know the final score, he would probably be pissed. Which wouldn't make any difference, but, well, that was House.

Next in line was a show about renovating vintage motorcycles and Wilson hoped that it would interest House enough for him to stop acting like a stoned six year old with a bad case of ADD. Before he had a chance to see if it would, the doorbell buzzed and House dragged himself from the couch. Unfortunately he took the remote with him.

House opened the door and Wilson glanced over the back of the couch, curious to see this Scotty, who apparently was allowed to address House by his first name. What he saw completely surprised him. Scotty was about seventeen years old and looked as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to be a Physics professor or a Keith Richards clone. Rumpled plaid shirt with awfully mis-matched tie, thick glasses held together by a piece of tape, a set of pens in his breast pocket, boring brown shoes with thick soles... And leather pants, black nail polish, thick bands of leather strings and beads on his wrists and neck, and short dreadlocks with something that looked like resistors braided in.

"Hi, Scotty" said House cheerfully. "Got something for me?"

"Yo, Doc" grumbled Scotty. "Curry, two boxes. That's 25.20 total."

"Sure" said House and turned towards dazed Wilson. "Jimmy, throw me your wallet."

Wilson, whose brain still didn't manage to fully register what he was seeing, blinked in surprise.

"Hey, Earth to Wilson. Wake up and give me the money!"

The kid suddenly looked interested. "Oh, so this is your Wilson?"

House nodded. "The one and only."

"_Your Wilson?_" squeaked Jimmy weakly.

"Kinda strange, isn't he?" commented Scotty, eying him critically.

"His mother dropped him on his head when he was little" replied House. "Wilson, get yourself together and give me the cash, Scotty can't wait here forever and besides, the curry is going cold."

"Yeah, I don't have the whole day" muttered Scotty, losing his interest in Wilson.

Wilson, still somewhat stunned, took his wallet out of his pocket and threw it towards the door. He missed, by good four feet.

Scotty rolled his eyes. "Wuss."

House leaned down carefully and picked the wallet up, then he grinned at Wilson. "He has other qualities" he said and winked at him. Winked! House! Scotty of course noticed and chuckled to himself, counting the cash he got from House.

_I'm going to kill him_, thought Wilson and closed his eyes.

"Okay, I'm off. Thanks for the tip, have fun, Doc" said Scotty with an ugly grimace, that was probably supposed to be a malicious smirk.

"See ya, Scotty. Say 'hi' to Bob and Lucy for me, when you see them" said House and locked the door behind the kid. He limped to the couch, carefully balancing the boxes and put them on the coffee table. He opened one and sniffed.

"Uh. Yeah, that one's spicy" he murmured, wiping tears from his eyes. "Your lunch, Jimmy" he said, putting the box in front of Wilson. "Get the forks, will you?"

Wilson kept staring at him with wide eyes.

"Wilson?"

"..."

"Hey, Wilson? Forks? You know, the little metal thingy with tines on one end? Kitchen drawer?"

"..."

"Jesus Christ, what's wrong with you, man? This couldn't have been the first awfully dressed teenager you've ever seen?"

"No..." managed to stutter Wilson.

"See, no need to stare. Besides, you should have seen him when he was going through the goth phase." House shuddered. "He looked like Albert Einstein who dyed his hair black and overdosed on the eyeliner."

"Who are Bob and Lucy?" asked Wilson, not quite sure how to breech the most important subject.

House shrugged. "His parents."

"You have a buddy... who's seventeen... looks like the lovechild of Stephen Hawking and Courtney Love... you know his parents... he calls you 'Doc'..." Wilson said slowly and House nodded at every statement. "And he calls me _Your Wilson_?!"

House feigned surprise. "Ah. That's what bothered you?"

"Yes!"

House sat back on the couch, clearly amused. "Well yeah. _My Wilson _meaning _my bestest buddy Wilson_" he said calmly. "What did you think I meant?"

Wilson could feel that he was turning red. "You winked at me!"

"And?"

"And you said 'He has other qualities'!"

"And?"

"Christ, House! That kid must think that we... that we..."

"Wilson, do you really care what a seventeen year old who wears ties that are even uglier than yours thinks?" asked House and stood.

"Where are you going?" asked Wilson.

"To get the forks" said House without looking back. "You apparently forgot what cutlery is."

Wilson was left alone in the living room. He was almost certain that House, as always, was happily poking fun at him and at the same time messing with the poor kid's head. Two for the price of one. Yes, that sounded exactly like something that House would enjoy. Certainly.

_"Almost" makes a big difference_, thought Wilson.

By the time House dug two forks from under the pile of dirty plates and came back to the living room, Wilson managed to mostly compose himself and get rid of persistent fantasies about murdering House and leaving his body in a ditch somewhere. House's amused expression, when he handed him the fork, clearly showed that he was planning on tormenting Wilson some more. Luckily for both of them, the doorbell buzzed again.

"Wilson, your turn" sighed House, who just put his legs on the table and opened his curry.

Wilson, extremely happy that the next turn of the game of Give the Oncologist an Apoplexy got postponed, stood up and opened the door. And froze, with the expression of pure horror on his face.

He was standing in the door to House's apartment, wearing _his _rumpled clothes, barefoot, with his hair sticking every which way and holding a fork.

On the other side of the door stood a young, petite brunette, gaping at him with astonishment, mixed with embarrassment and terror.

After ten seconds of ringing silence, that seemed to go on forever, House's cheerful voice came from the couch. "Good afternoon, Doctor Cameron!"

Cameron jumped and squeaked something that could have been a greeting. Wilson felt a deep blush creeping up on his face and the overwhelming desire to disappear - right here and right now. Or at least drop to the floor with a heart attack.

"Oh fuck" he groaned and hid his face in his hands.

**ooooooooooo**

tbc.

**A/N**: Those of you who think that I've tortured poor Jimmy enough will be happy to know that in the next chapter I'm going to torture Cameron instead. cackles evilly Um. Right.

Many thanks to **sodapop0006 **who noticed that I somehow managed invent a new version of baseball (my kind has hoops!) in this chapter. I pledge temporary stupidity.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **For a standard disclaimer see my profile. And don't worry, no oncologists were harmed during the making of this fic.

**ooooooooooo**

Wilson didn't disappear. He also didn't have a heart attack, a sudden and unexpected bout of asthma, a stroke, a seizure or any other unfortunate ailments that would allow him to avoid the disaster. For a moment he thought that if he tried a little he might be able to faint, but after a short consideration he decided against it. House would never let him live it down if Wilson gracefully sunk to the floor. And he would probably trip over him on purpose once or twice.

Instead Wilson, face still red from embarrassment, stepped aside without a word and with a gesture invited Cameron inside. The girl hesitated, clearly wondering whether it wouldn't be a better idea to turn on her heel and run - preferably to some place away from here. _Far _away.

She must have been thinking very loudly, because House - looking like a kid who found a bike, a computer _and _a new iPod under the Christmas tree - spoke from the couch, "Doctor Cameron, why don't you come inside? Or did you decide to join Doctors Without Borders in Somalia?"

Cameron blushed, almost as much as Wilson, and entered the apartment, casting nervous glances around her.

"Can I offer you something to drink? Tea? Orange juice?" asked House in a polite and sweet voice. Cameron eyed him as if he had grown a second head. She hasn't been working at PPTH for long, but she knew her boss well enough to know that Gregory House was _never _polite or sweet.

"No, thank you" she managed, after exchanging panicked glances with Wilson.

"Are you sure? It's so chilly today..." asked House with concern. Wilson barely restrained himself from walking up to the couch and breaking his best friend's neck.

"I... Maybe a tea, then" squeaked Cameron, twisting the shoulder-strap of her purse in her shaking hands. "If that's not too much of a problem..."

House smiled reassuringly. Or at least that smile was _supposed _to be reassuring. Wilson, and Cameron as well, judging by the fact that she took a step back, was reminded of a hungry wolf, slowly creeping towards an unexpected deer. "No problem at all" House waved his hand. "I'll get something right away" he added and stood.

Wilson, who was already turning towards the kitchen, stopped. He was expecting House to casually order him to go to the kitchen and make tea for everyone, leaving terrified Cameron all alone with him.

"Jimmy, what kind of a host are you?" chastised him House. "Entertain the lady until I get back."

"_A host_?" peeped Cameron.

"House! I'm not... I... We don't..."

"_A lady_?"

"House, this is _your _apartment!"

House gave him a bright smile. "Oh, Jimmy, we talked about this. My home is your home and all that" he said and disappeared behind the door.

"But..." tried to stutter out Wilson.

"Maybe I should go?" whispered Cameron, her voice hopeful.

"Nonsense!" yelled House from the kitchen, proving that his hearing was excellent and making both Wilson and Cameron jump. "Jimmy, invite the lady to sit down, I'm ashamed of you!"

Wilson in his desperation tried to explain the situation once more. "I don't live here! Really!"

Cameron retreated one more step and her back hit the wall. "Never mind! It's not a problem, it's none of my business!" she assured Wilson, shaking her head franticly.

"But... He was just... just joking, Doctor Cameron! House and I, we... we're not..."

If Cameron could walk through walls, she's be standing on the street right now. "Fine, whatever you say! I don't care, I have nothing against... None of my business!" she repeated.

Wilson desperately searched for a way to clear up this whole mess and calm Cameron down, before _she _fainted, but he couldn't think of anything. _Besides, House will be back in a moment and he will mix everything up again,_ thought Wilson with resignation. He sighed and looked at Cameron.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asked in his most soothing Boy Wonder Oncologist voice. Well, it was good enough for frantic patients with terminal cancer, so it worked just as well on a shaken immunologist on a verge of a panic attack.

Cameron cautiously unstuck herself from the wall and tentatively followed Wilson to the couch. Wilson swept crushed potato chips and a single, flattened gummy-bear from the cushions, and gestured for Cameron to sit down.

House came back to the living room and for a second Wilson forgot to breathe. Yes, his friend brought tea. In beautiful, delicate tea cups. With tea spoons, milk, slices of lemon on a saucer and the sugar bowl that matched the cups. On a _silver tray_, which he balanced on his left hand with a grace of an experienced waiter from a very expensive restaurant.

Wilson would never, not ever guess, that House owned a porcelain tea set.

"Ma'am." House bowed, placing the tray on a coffee table, and sat down next to his employee. Cameron instinctively moved closer to Wilson. Wilson hid his face in his hands with despair and waited for the Apocalypse.

"So" said excitedly House. Cameron jumped and almost spilled her tea. "What can we do for you this fine afternoon?"

The young doctor cautiously placed the cup on the table. Porcelain clinked in her unsteady hands. "We don't have a patient right now, so... so I... started organizing old files..." she said, after gathering her courage. House was watching her with polite interest. "I need your signatures, Doctor... on some forms and... and reports..."

House smiled. "Oh, that's wonderful! How nice of you! You shouldn't have, really."

Cameron blinked and for a moment forgot what she was talking about. "Yes. Well. The files" she stuttered out and tore her gaze from House's terrifyingly honest and open face. "Here" she said, practically shoving the folders and a pen into her boss' hands.

"Of course, we'll deal with it right away" said House, directing his full attention towards the files.

Cameron and Wilson sighed in relief when they saw that House wasn't trying to draw the show out and was quickly signing everything that needed to be signed.

"All done" House smiled widely, signing the last piece of paper with a flourish. "Anything else we can help you with?"

Cameron immediately put all the files in her bag and practically jumped off the couch.

"No, thank you, that's all, I'll be going then..." she stammered.

"But, dear Allison... may I call you Allison?" Cameron nodded, apparently ready to agree to anything, as long as it allowed her to get out of House's apartment. "Dear Allison, you didn't finish your tea! Are you absolutely sure you can't stay a while longer?"

Cameron started walking backwards towards the door and almost tripped over the edge of the recliner. "No, I can't, really. Thank you for the tea, it was really good. I have to go now, I have... I have clinic hours this afternoon! I'm sorry I dropped by like that... so unexpectedly. Thank you, goodbye" she stammered, tripping over her words and ran away.

House and Wilson sat on the couch in silence, staring at the door. Finally Wilson turned towards House and glared at him. "You complete idiot! You son of a bitch! That was low, you scared that poor girl to death!" he yelled. House's lips twitched with barely restrained amusement. "That's not funny, damn you! And what's with 'my home is your home, Jimmy'?! First that Scotty and now Cameron?"

That's when House lost it and burst into laughter. "House! That's not... God dammit, tomorrow whole hospital will be talking about us... about me and..." Wilson was raging, while House howled with laughter, curled up on a couch.

"Stop guffawing like a hyena, you bastard!" yelled Wilson, clenching his fists in a helpless fury. House uncurled himself and without much success tried to calm down.

"Oh God, Jimmy... d-did you see her... her face?" he stuttered, between the explosions of mad laughter.

"House..."

"_Dear Allison..._" House giggled weakly, wiping the tears from his face.

"House, I swear, I'm going to..."

"_Not a problem... None of my business..._"

"House, shut up, or I won't be responsible for my actions."

"_Maybe some tea_..."

"_It's not funny!!_"

House stifled his laughter and looked at Wilson questioningly. Wilson closed his eyes, counted to ten and sunk into the leather cushions with a resigned sigh.

"Fine, maybe a little bit."

"Jimmy..."

"Fine, maybe more than a little bit" admitted reluctantly Wilson and smiled, against himself.

For a moment they sat together in silence.

"What got into you?" asked Wilson. "It's not enough that you torture her at work?"

"She was making eyes at me again. I had to set her straight" House shrugged.

Wilson didn't point out to him that he could have accomplish that noble goal without ruining his best friend's reputation. There was no point.

"Where did you learn that trick with a tray?"

"I moonlighted as a waiter to pay for medical school."

They both fell silent. Wilson tried to imagine the reactions of his co-workers, once Cameron recovered from shock enough to share the juicy gossip. His subordinates from Oncology will probably be horrified. The nurses will think it's cute and will wish both of them luck - much to House's delight and Wilson's deep embarrassment. His ex-wives... Oh God, his ex-wives! His _parents_!

_I will run off to Mexico and start a cactus plantation, _decided Wilson.

Then he remembered about George the second shift nurse and decided it would be best not to think about it anymore.

"And where did you get those tea cups?" he asked instead.

"Inherited them. They were my grandmother's" said House, a blissful smile still on his face. "It was supposed to be a wedding gift, but my mom said she had lost hope that I would ever find anyone insane enough to marry me."

"I have no idea why she might think that" grumbled Wilson and reached for the box of his now cold curry. He didn't notice House moving back a bit, taking his legs off the coffee table and staring at him expectantly.

Wilson scooped the forkful of the deliciously aromatic dish, put it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

It was a mistake.

**ooooooooooo**

tbc.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **For a standard disclaimer see my profile. This chapter and the next are shorter, sorry about that. It was either a short update now, or a long one in a week.

**ooooooooooo**

Wilson pulled his head from under the faucet and glared at House, who sat curled up in a weakly giggling ball in the corner. He just drank about five liters of icy cold water, but he still felt as if he swallowed a gallon of gasoline with a burning match as a chaser.

"Stop chuckling and give me a towel, you twerp" he said hoarsely to his, supposedly, best friend. For a thousandth time since he had met House he wondered what horrible crimes he had committed in his previous lives to deserve it. Most people, even truly evil people, couldn't say they had _worse enemies _who were in the same class as Gregory House. So how on Earth did Wilson earn a _best friend _like this? Did he strangle his own mother? Blow up a kindergarten? Destroy a small civilization?

House wiped the tears of mirth from his face and stood up. "Jimmy..."

"House, shut up."

"You should have seen your face..."

"House..."

"Beautiful, your eyes popped out as if you sat down on a cactus."

"_House_..."

"I soooo wish I had a camera at hand."

Wilson raised his hand. "Not a word, seriously. Towel."

House limped to the closet in the hall and came back with a fresh towel in his hand. And a wide smile on his face, which spoke louder than a hundred mocking comments. Wilson briefly wondered what sentence would he get if beating House to death with his own cane was classified as a voluntary manslaughter instead of cold-blooded murder, due to extreme stress and emotional pressure. Then he decided that the moment of satisfaction probably would not be worth it, took the towel and started drying his dripping hair.

"I know that according to you my main purpose in life is entertaining you..."

"And giving me Vicodin" added helpfully House. Wilson glared at him.

"...but you could have warned me."

House made his patent innocent face. "You said you wanted something to burn your taste buds, if I remember correctly. _You _told me to order curry."

"That wasn't curry, that was rice with chicken and _napalm_! And by 'burn" I meant 'get rid of the nasty taste in my mouth', not 'permanently destroy my sense of taste, so that from this day on everything I eat will taste like wet cardboard'!"

"Ah. Should have said so" House shrugged. If Wilson had any delusions that it might accomplish something, he would get mad at him. Since he lost any hope about two hours after meeting House for the first time, which had happened more or less a decade ago, he only sighed with resignation and went to the kitchen to throw the box of Curry-From-Hell away.

"You're not gonna finish this?" asked House in a innocent voice, earning another evil glare, which of course didn't impress him one bit.

"You owe me lunch" muttered Wilson, plopping down on a couch, next to disgustingly proud of himself House.

"There's some of that dry bread left in the kitchen" said House, without looking away from the TV.

"Very funny. Grab the phone and order me something. Something that doesn't qualify as a biological weapon!" he added quickly when House looked at him with a spark in his eye.

"What's the point? No matter what I order, it's gonna taste like that bread. Or rather it won't taste at all. You said it yourself - wet cardboard" said House. "Waste of money."

"_My _money, you won't pay anyway. Since when do you care so much about my finances?"

"Are you serious?" asked House with mock surprise. "The state of your finances is very important to me! Every ten bucks you don't spend on a tasteless burrito, can be spent on my yummy lunch on Monday."

Wilson got up and went to the kitchen. House joined him five minutes later, drawn by the sound of running watter and the clinking of the plates, being put in a dishwasher.

"What are you doing?"

"_Washing. Dishes_" grumbled Wilson. "I know it's an unknown concept for you, so I'll explain - you take a dish rag and some dish soap..."

"I can see that you're washing dishes, I'm just wondering why" interrupted House.

"Because I decided that unless I distracted myself soon, I was going to do something that would land you on a local cemetery and me in a state prison."

House watched him for a moment and then he shrugged. "Wash away then" he said and limped back to the living room, leaving Wilson all alone with a week's worth of dirty dishes.

Wilson spent next thirty minutes making the kitchen more or less clean, ignoring the persistent burning in his throat and wondering why exactly didn't he tell House that he had had enough of him, his sense of humor and his sick ideas. That's what any normal, rational person would do in his situation. No one sane would take the endless quips, mocking comments, idiotic pranks and being repeatedly pulled into dangerous situations. So why did Wilson stay and live with this?

"Maybe I'm just a masochist" muttered Wilson to himself, sweeping the kitchen table one last time. He looked around the kitchen, decided that making tea in it would no longer mean risking death or at least serious food poisoning, wiped his hands with satisfaction and went back to the living room, with an intention of having a serious conversation about friendship and establishing boundaries with House.

On the coffee table stood a bowl of his favorite, delicate tuna salad from Macy's Place, and next to it a bucket of his favorite caramel ice cream. House was sitting at the piano and playing some lazy, improvised blues song. When Wilson went inside, he looked up from the keys for a second and send him a crooked smile.

"I still say it doesn't make any sense, since you won't feel anything anyway, but if you insist, here you are. Your money, your business" said House.

_Maybe that's why_, thought Wilson and reached for a fork.

**ooooooooooo**

tbc.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **For a standard disclaimer see my profile. Norman is mine, hope you like him, he will make another appearance in the next chapter. For which you will have to wait a while, school starts tomorrow...

**ooooooooooo**

House was right, the damned know-it-all. As usual. The ice cream really did taste exactly like the tuna - or rather they both didn't taste at all. Wilson promised himself that if his taste buds didn't start working like they should by Monday, he would do something extremely nasty and probably illegal to House.

House approached Wilson's predicament in a predictable manner. First he spent five minutes watching the eating oncologist with a smug smirk on his face, then he suggested mixing the ice cream with the salad, since it wouldn't make any difference anyway.

Wilson sent him an irritated glare and swallowed another spoonful of awfully bland caramel.

"House, I'm gonna give you a piece of friendly advice. Don't say anything. Seriously, for your own good, for once stay quiet."

"I can't, I have to save my bestest buddy from the depression induced by the poor innocent curry."

"First of all - that curry was about as innocent as a retired hooker. Second of all - I'm not depressed, I'm pissed off. Third of all - I'm pissed off _at you_, so if you had wanted me to be in a good mood, you should have skipped feeding that crap to me, then my mood would not need improving."

House played some idiotic little tune and smiled even wider. "You should look on the bright side."

Wilson knew that for the sake of his own mental health he should leave House's suggestion without comment, but he couldn't help himself. "What bright side?" he asked.

"You can go to a bar and bet everyone that you can eat a pickle with peanut butter, olives and French mustard, then drink some banana liqueur with Tabasco and _still _keep smiling."

Wilson's stomach tied itself into a tiny, horrified knot at the idea, even if the vile mixture would fail to make an impression at the moment. "And that's supposed to be a bright side?"

"Do you know how much money we could make this way?"

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "_We_?"

"Twenty per cent for me, it was my idea after all."

"You know, I don't think I'm interested."

House's hands danced over the piano keys and another absurdly chipper melody gnawed at Wilson's brain, which only just started to feel okay and didn't appreciate the treatment at all.

"Could you not do that?" grumbled Wilson, massaging his temples.

House sighed and smoothly switched to some gloomy blues piece. "And people say I'm the unpleasant, cranky pessimist."

"You are."

"No, I'm not, I always say the glass is half full!" protested House with mock outrage.

"That's because when yours is empty you steal mine."

"Look - I'm trying to lighten the mood with pleasant conversation, sincere words of comfort and easy, uplifting music. And what do you say? 'My head hurts, ice cream is yucky, I don't wanna go to a bar, stop making noise'."

"House, this is not a pleasant conversation, this is round 347 of Making Fun of Jimmy. Those weren't sincere words of comfort, only a nasty scheme to use my problem - which you caused, by the way - to con some poor sap out of some cash. And that easy, uplifting music was an awfully annoying tune from the cereal commercial."

House looked down and started playing something even more depressing. "And I tried so hard..." he said, pretending to be hurt. "You don't appreciate me at all."

"I do, I do, don't worry" said Wilson and got up from the couch. He gathered dirty dishes from his second lunch and went towards the kitchen. "I will get you a beer if you switch to something less gloomy" he threw over his shoulder and smiled, when a mournful, slow melody was replaced by much more lively, jazzy improvisation.

Rest of the afternoon and the evening passed quietly. House didn't look like he was up to something (or at least nothing big; Wilson had learned long ago that House was _always _up to something), so Wilson allowed himself to relax. If he read his friend's mood and intentions right - and after a decade he was really good at it - then House, by finally acting like a normal, mostly sane adult, was trying to say something along the lines of 'I was just kidding Jimmy, don't get mad, I didn't mean anything bad'. That is - in classic, insane Houseian style - let him know that, if he were in the habit of apologizing for his actions, he would do something that, while not exactly a real apology, should be interpreted as 'I'm sorry'.

Wilson examined that thought carefully and decided it was so completely twisted and idiotic that it should rather worry, not amuse him. He quickly wiped the part resigned, part blissful smile off his face, before House had a chance to notice and comment, and went back to watching "The Hunt for Red October".

Half an hour later House, in yet another uncharacteristic gesture of good will, let him choose the next movie. Wilson, for the first time since last night, felt that everything was right in the world.

The universe always settles the score, as House says when he allows himself a tiny, microscopic bit of idealism, so around 1 AM the delicious feeling of peace and lazy satisfaction, which filled Wilson when he was falling asleep, shattered to pieces.

Soft knocking at the door woke him up. That alone was strange. When someone decides to knock at a door in the middle of the night, they usually knock loud enough to make sure that somebody inside will wake up. Even more surprising was the fact that someone was knocking on _House's_ door at one in the morning. Still not fully awake, Wilson tried to figure out who would want and, more importantly, be brave enough to do something like this. Unfortunately the only suspect Wilson could think of was Wilson himself, who, being an oncologist and not a dead cat, couldn't be in two places at once.

Wilson rubbed his sleepy eyes and, tripping over his own shoes, walked to the door.

After Scotty's visit yesterday he was sure that none of House's acquaintances could possibly surprise him. He was wrong.

"Gregory, my dear boy, you have to see this!" the graying gentleman on the other side of the door spoke in a stage whisper, franticly looking for something in a stack of papers, dog-eared and covered with illegible notes.

"Yyy" replied intelligently Wilson, not able to tear his gaze from the flowery silk dressing gown the stranger was wearing. And at the same time realizing that for the second time in the last twelve hours he opened the door to House's apartment while wearing his boxers and with hair sticking on end.

"One moment, where was it..."

Wilson pinched his arm to make sure he wasn't dreaming and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I'm not..."

The man stopped his chaotic search, looked at Wilson with eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and froze.

"Oh. Yes. I'm sorry. You are not Gregory."

"No, I'm not" agreed Wilson.

"Ah." The man took a step back. "This is the first floor, right? I'm on the first floor?" he asked worriedly and glanced at the golden letter 'B' on the door.

"Yes. House is asleep, I can wake him up if it's something urgent..."

The man let out a nervous chuckle. "No, there's no need, I'm very sorry, I didn't want to wake you up, Mister..."

Wilson's impeccable manners woke up and told him to offer a polite smile and extend his hand in greeting. "Wilson, James Wilson. I work with House."

The man put the stack of papers under his arm and firmly shook Wilson's hand, eying him up and down. "Norman. Pleased to meet you, Mr Wilson. Once again, I apologize, I will come to talk to Gregory in... the... morning..."

Norman stopped in the middle of a word, staring at Wilson's boxers. Wilson froze, blushed and, just in case, looked down to make sure there was nothing he should worry about. There wasn't. Except maybe the fact that a strange man, who was apparently House's neighbor, was staring at his crotch with astonishment and a hint of outrage.

The man blinked several times, pressed his lips in a thin line, glowered at Wilson, threw him a curt "Good night" and disappeared on the stairs.

Wilson stood in the open door for a moment, completely confused, then he shrugged and returned to his couch. Before he went back to sleep, he turned on the light and examined the boxers he got an hour later from House. Black, cotton, white letters running down each leg. Feeling extremely stupid, Wilson leaned down to read the text.

"_Vescere... bracis meis_" he deciphered. Latin? For a moment he struggled to dig out the dusty memories and translate the words, but he soon gave up. He was way too tired to think about something as complicated as Latin grammar. _I will ask House in the morning_, he thought, falling asleep.

**ooooooooooo**

tbc.

**A/N:** A cookie for anyone who can translate Wilson's boxers. Hm, that sounds much more naughty than it should. Oh, and I meant – translate **without using Google**. 'Kay?


End file.
